"Stop her!" cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and hadwrenched a small phial from her hand.
"Too late!" she said, sinking back on the bed. "Too late! I took thepoison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! Icharge you, sir, to remember the packet."
"A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one," Holmesremarked, as we travelled back to town. "It hinged from the outset uponthe pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man havingseized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our solution.It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that the wearer musthave been very blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you askedme to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass withoutonce making a false step I remarked, as you may remember, that it wasa noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an impossibleperformance, save in the unlikely case that she had a second pair ofglasses. I was forced, therefore, to seriously consider the hypothesisthat she had remained within the house. On perceiving the similarity ofthe two corridors it became clear that she might very easily have madesuch a mistake, and in that case it was evident that she must haveentered the Professor's room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore,for whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the roomnarrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemedcontinuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door.There might well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, suchdevices are common in old libraries. I observed that books were piledon the floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear.This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but thecarpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to examination.I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and Idropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected bookcase.It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I then went downstairsand I ascertained, in your presence, Watson, without your perceivingthe drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram's consumption of food hadincreased--as one would expect when he is supplying a second person. Wethen ascended to the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box,I obtained a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quiteclearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had,in our absence, come out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are atCharing Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought your case toa successful conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. Ithink, Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy."
*****
THE STRAND MAGAZINE Vol. 28 AUGUST, 1904 THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.
XI.--The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter.
WE were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street,but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomyFebruary morning some seven or eight years ago and gave Mr. SherlockHolmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him, and ranthus:--
"Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing;indispensable to morrow.--OVERTON."
"Strand post-mark and dispatched ten-thirty-six," said Holmes, readingit over and over. "Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited whenhe sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence. Well, well, he willbe here, I dare say, by the time I have looked through the TIMES, andthen we shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problemwould be welcome in these stagnant days."
Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dreadsuch periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my companion'sbrain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to leave it withoutmaterial upon which to work. For years I had gradually weaned himfrom that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkablecareer. Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer cravedfor this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend wasnot dead, but sleeping; and I have known that the sleep was a light oneand the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawnlook upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set andinscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he mightbe, since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerouscalm which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of histempestuous life.
As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, andthe card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge, announcedthe arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of solid bone andmuscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders and lookedfrom one of us to the other with a comely face which was haggard withanxiety.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
My companion bowed.
"I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector StanleyHopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as hecould see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police."
"Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."
"It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my hair isn't grey.Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course? He's simply the hingethat the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the packand have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's passing, ortackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him; and then, he's gotthe head and can hold us all together. What am I to do? That's what Iask you, Mr. Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trainedas a half, and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead ofkeeping out on the touch-line. He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but,then, he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why, Mortonor Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. Stevenson isfast enough, but he couldn't drop from the twenty-five line, and athree-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't worth a place forpace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can help me to findGodfrey Staunton."
My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech, whichwas poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every pointbeing driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon the speaker'sknee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out his hand and tookdown letter "S" of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain intothat mine of varied information.
"There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said he, "andthere was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton isa new name to me."
It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.
"Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I suppose, then,if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don't know Cyril Overtoneither?"
Holmes shook his head good-humouredly.
"Great Scot!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first reserve for Englandagainst Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this year. But that'snothing! I didn't think there was a soul in England who didn't knowGodfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, andfive Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where HAVE you lived?"
Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.
"You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, a sweeter andhealthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections ofsociety, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is thebest and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected visit thismorning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair playthere may be work for me to do; so now, my good sir, I beg you to sitdown and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly what it is that hasoccurred, and how you desire that I should help you."
Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is moreaccustomed to using his muscles than his wits; but by degrees, with manyrepetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laidhis strange story before us.
"It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of theRugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man.To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up and we settled atBentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round and saw that allthe fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict training andplenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfreybefore he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I askedhim what was the matter. He said he was all right--just a touch ofheadache. I bade him good-night and left him. Half an hour later theporter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a notefor Godfrey. He had not gone to bed and the note was taken to his room.Godfrey read it and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed.The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfreystopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together. Thenhe went downstairs, said a few words to the man who was waiting in thehall, and the two of them went off together. The last that the portersaw of them, they were almost running down the street in the directionof the Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had neverbeen slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them the nightbefore. He had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and noword has come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. Hewas a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't havestopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for somecause that was too strong for him. No; I feel as if he were gone forgood and we should never see him again."
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singularnarrative.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him there.I have had an answer. No one has seen him."
"Could he have got back to Cambridge?"